The Kills
by Lexy797
Summary: "The Kills" is a series of drabbles that I wrote in response to prompts to my ask box on my Montparnasse roleplay account to kill the sender's muse. I do not own Les Miserables or anything affiliated with it. Enjoy!
1. Jehan Prouvaire

It was the darkness on the tiny street, the lonely streetlight at the end of the road not quite casting enough light to see by. It was the rain, hazing the view on the street as the skies opened up. It was Montparnasse's recognizable coat thrown over Jehan's shoulders as the cold sunk in. It was stupid mistakes, too many crimes, too many enemies, too hard to see, too hard to distinguish between the two of them in the dark. It could have been any of it. But the bottom line was, they had wanted him and they had gotten Jehan instead. And now the poet was the one bleeding on the slick pavement, his dark blood mingling with the dark rain in the gutter instead of Montparnasse's. It should've been him, lying there dying, but instead it was the poet. The sentimental poet with a love of flowers and kittens and walks in the rain at night with thieves. It was him who the bullet had hit, the faceless killer behind it disappearing before the thief could give chase.

Whispered apologies could not take the bullet back. Whispered reassurances could not keep the boy from dying. He couldn't even stay by his side as the police sirens were heard in the distance. He let go of the rain-chilled, death-frozen hand and he ran.

The killer was gone, the poet was dead, and thief might as well have been.


	2. Claquesous

Montparnasse was halfway down the side street when he heard the gunshot. He stopped where he was, looking around. Brujon had gotten out first and Babet had been close on his heels. "Shit, Sous," he hissed, running back towards the house. He had been right behind him!

As he rounded the corner he almost ran into Claquesous. Montparnasse caught him as he stumbled and fell forward, and he lowered him carefully to the cobblestones. "Don't you dare move," he said sharply, opening the man's coat gently to the sight of blood soaking quickly through the shirt underneath. His jaw clenched. Shit. Shit. Shit. "Hey. It's not so bad," he lied. "I think you've gotten worse from Jehan's kitten," he said, smirking down at the thief. In all reality, there was nothing he could do. He was losing blood too fast, the shooter had hit something important inside. His blood was everywhere. He was going to die.

A few minutes, and Montparnasse just couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't do anything to save Claquesous, but he couldn't just let him die like this, either. The normally steely man was shaking, his eyes glazed and his words incoherent. He was in excruciating pain and Montparnasse knew it. It could be up to a half hour before the man died, and he refused to watch him suffer. Releasing the strip of cloth that he had pressed against the man's wound to try to stop the bleeding, he reached for his hand instead. "You're the night, Claquesous," he said quietly. "Don't fear it." Then he put his own revolver to the man's head and pulled the trigger.

Releasing the thief's hand, he stood. Then, cocking the revolver again, he headed for the house they had just tried to rob, his eyes cold as ice.


	3. Grantaire

Montparnasse stepped closer, gripping Grantaire's shoulder as he plunged the knife into the man's stomach. His hands pushed weakly against Montparnasse, trying to fight him off, trying to do anything that would just stop the pain, but Montparnasse only pushed the hilt of the knife farther in, shoving the dying man against the grimy wall of the alleyway.

"Where's your fearless leader now?" Montparnasse hissed as he twisted the knife inside of the other man. "Not close enough to save you, apparently." He pulled the bloody knife out of the cynic's stomach, watching as he slumped to the ground.


	4. Aurelia Combeferre

She's either lost or stupid, he thought, eying his mark. She was far too beautiful and too easy a target to be walking the streets of Paris alone at night. He moved forward from the wall he was leaning against, silent and unnoticed until the girl was within reach. "Don't scream. I'm not going t' hurt you," he said calmly, grabbing hold of her arm. "Give me anything of value that you 'ave on you."

When she didn't budge, he decided look for himself. She let out a cry as he began to search her, and he sighed. Hearing a noise inside the building behind them, he straightened quickly and pocketed the few coins that he had found. "I really didn't want to 'ave to do this," he muttered, quickly wrapping his fingers around her throat.


	5. Joly

Montparnasse staggered forward slightly but remained on his feet, following the doctor into the apartment with his pistol pressed into the other man's back. His free hand was currently putting pressure on a knife wound in his side, an attempt to slow the stream of blood flowing steadily from the hole left behind. "Come on, I don't have all night," he growled, prodding the man with the mouth of the gun. In a matter of minutes he was lying on the doctor's dining room table, the gun wavering slightly as a needle pulled in and out of his skin, stitching up the deep wound in his side.

He must have blacked out, he thought, cursing himself as he woke up. Swallowing past the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, presumably from biting his lip too hard while he was being stitched up, he tried to sit up. The next two things that he realized were that one of his wrists was tied to a table leg and the gun was gone from his other hand. He rolled his eyes. Real surprising. Gritting his teeth, he dragged his right foot up the table, leaning up as far as he could to reach down the side of his boot. Lucky for him the good doctor hadn't searched him too thoroughly, but not so lucky for the other guy. He cut himself loose with the stiletto knife and swung his legs off the table. He moved as quickly as he could in his current state to the wall beside the door. It wasn't too long before the doctor reentered.

"Thought you'd patch me up and serve me to the police on a silver platter, did you?"


	6. Thenardier

Montparnasse chuckled darkly as the man in front of him froze, the cold metal of the gun pressing against the back of his head stopping him in his tracks. "I hate to see our very fruitful partnership end like this, but you've really backed me into a corner 'ere."

Reaching a hand out, he turned the older man around to face him. "Come on. You should know by now not t' cheat me, Thénardier. How many men have you seen me kill over shit like this? It's a pretty simple thing, this agreement we've had. You get your fair share, I get mine. Why did you have t' go and ruin that?"

He barely listened to his response before pulling the trigger.


End file.
